No Contact
by SociallyObscene
Summary: The year is 2066, and physical contact is illegal. He could get arrested for selling affection to the deprived world every night. She lost it all, and doesn't trust anyone. He, Fang Walker, wants to revolt against the Court, and she, Maximum Ride, might be the only one who can help him. But will she let him?


**I saw this as a post and I HAD to make it into a story.**

**Disclaimer: Sorry! MR isn't mine!**

* * *

"How much?"

"For what you're asking?" A small, jittery sigh escapes through my teeth. "Thirty."

She scans the entrance to the alleyway behind her with shaky eyes, the fear and danger almost palpable in her gaze. "Okay," she agrees, quickly shoving a handful of dollars into my awaiting palm. We delve deeper into the alley; I grab her hand and she flinches. I flash her a look, but she ignores it, settling for staring at the floral print on her trainers.

We arrive at the darkest part of the alley, a place where I carry out all the deals that I make. It's a queer sort of place, with a wooden stool that's painted the rusty colours of the brick wall that it sits in front of. I find it constantly difficult to get to it, but the graffiti is the perfect way to discern its location.

She's shaking. I can feel it, and there's no doubt that this is her first deal, and no doubt the first time that she's been touched before. My hands are ice in her nervous, warm ones, the kind of ice that comes from being alone for so long. My thumb begins to trace shapes onto our laced fingers, and I think about the shapes instead of how illegal what I'm doing is. What _we're _doing is.

_Triangle._

_Circle._

_Hexagon._

_Square._

To be honest, however, I'm a little shaky, too. It's very rare that a costumer will ask me for what she's asking, especially someone that has obviously never done something like this before. Typically, I get people who want a quick fix, something that I can easily provide, but nothing that's so dangerous.

This is extreme.

I turn to face her. Her expression seems to have hardened, but is still soft and filled with anticipation. This isn't my first time, and I'm positive that as time goes on, it won't be my last. People are getting more curious.

I don't say anything as I pull her into a hug. I can't see it, but it's very common for customers to have the same reaction on their first time. Her eyes are wide, no doubt, and the shock that she's feeling is horrifying; I know it is. I hug her a bit tighter.

She starts to respond, finally, wrapping her arms around my torso and clasping her hands together. Her breath is hot, blowing on the side of my chest as her ear presses onto it. She can no doubt hear my erratic heartbeat in between her shudders. I know what she's thinking, because I'm thinking it too.

_Why does this have to be a secret?_

There were times when it wasn't always like this, when people could freely express their affection through physical contact. Those days are obsolete, however, far away into the past where they're just stories, bits and pieces of history textbooks. Romance novels, the romance between two people that wasn't entirely computerized - those books have been burned, gone. Physical contact is illegal. Affection is computerized, reproduction is entirely impersonal, and doesn't even require two people, just the necessary components.

I was born in a test tube. My classmates, parents, and everyone else. We show affection with words, give compliments and praises with lies, and tell ourselves that it isn't a part of human nature to want to give someone a hug, or a kiss goodbye.

And no one cares, or at least pretends not to.

I pull apart from this girl, this stranger, but we aren't entirely strangers - we both want the same thing. We want to be loved, and we don't want it from the words of others. Her eyes gaze into mine, calm and serene. She looks at me with awe and intensity, like a blind man seeing colours for the first time.

"Are you sure you want to?" I ask her, whispering, brushing away a strand of hair from her cheek. As a response, she presses her palms flat against my chest, rising onto her toes, and presses her lips to mine. Although she's initiated it, she is definitely relying on me to be able to teach her, to guide her lips through mine. My mouth moves with hers, and I'm tangling my fingers in her hair with quivering fingertips, remembering the times that I've done this over the years. It's been four, and I'm already seventeen, and in that time, fifteen times.

Fifteen kisses in four years. It's not fair.

It's over all too soon, and she lowers herself before resting her head once again on my chest. Our heartbeats collide with each other, and we simply hold hands for a while more, my icy touch being melted by her heat.

"What's your name?" She croaks, as if she hasn't spoken in years. I give her a slight smile, the least that I can do.

"Fang." It's my street name. She gives me a look, like she didn't know she was dealing with the most infamous of all hug dealers. She licks her lips, and I stare at the once soft pink lips that are now slightly swollen. It gives me hope.

She won't tell me her name, even if I ask. I know this - people are afraid of the unknown, even if they experience a feeling of trust towards someone. And to do something this illegal with someone, it's horrifying to think that a giveaway like a _name _could be entrusted with someone that could be arrested at any moment.

She lets go and gives me a crooked smile before moving to the streetlights outside the alleyway, leaving behind my rusted stool and the graffiti of intertwined hands and lips, like ours weren't just like that minutes ago. But she'll be back, maybe not to me, but to another dealer.

Once someone experiences love, or infatuation, they'll want to feel it again.

This is how we'll change the world; I know it.

* * *

I stay in the alley for a bit longer before putting the money into the stool, a trick that my first dealer, Ari, taught me. Religion taught our ancestors that homosexuality was wrong, but in this day and age, love is love no matter who it's with, and the craving and feeling of love and acceptance that another human being can give is a prize. There's a carving on the top that is actually hollow, and that's where the money goes. It's perfectly concealed.

It's late at night, and the streetlights are dimmer than I thought they were. The city is bustling, people moving with purpose and agitation to get home. The city clock reads the time and date, and I look at it with disappointment - _23:12, 9 December 2066. _It's not as late as I'd like it to be, it's not the dead of night where the rebellious members of the city refuse the Court's new laws, where they hold hands under long sleeves and laugh while giving "eskimo-kisses," an obsolete term almost lost from the beginning of the millennium.

I'll graduate in 2067, in a year. It's strange to think that my grandmother graduated in 2017, fifty years ago, when the internet was bustling and technology was starting to make its great descent. That was before the War, when people could still decide on who to marry regardless of the genetic advances. When people made love to each other, rather than donate cells to have children become test-tube babies, like this generation.

Even though the war was forty years ago, everyone still remembers it. It's hard not to. Anyone above the age of fifty can recall the feelings that led up to it, when technology was becoming so consuming that barely anyone could socialize with another being, a life so computerized that humans were barely able to interact without a screen.

I shake my head. Talk about the War is for the Assembly.

As soon as my mind starts to clear, I hear the sound of shouting, which is almost as uncommon as physical contact. Shouting typically leads to physical fights, which are definitely not allowed, so the Guard tries to break it up before it can escalate. At this time, however, there aren't many people around with the gall to notify the Guard when something happens, so civilians stop the fights in order to avoid questioning.

I'm the only one who's come to the sound of yelling, which is at the entrance of my alleyway. The first thing I see as I approach it are eyes of burnt amber, eyes with so much emotion that they penetrate the first layer in my skin and work their way through my muscles, jerking me to a stop. The second thing I notice is that she's yelling at someone I know.

"Whoa, Ari, calm down," I start, standing in between the two and pushing both my arms out, making sure not to touch them. _"I said knock it off!" _I say louder, and the two of them are silent.

"Fang? Is that you?" I hear him say, and the expression of annoyance on his face switches to enlightenment. "Dude! It's been so long! You grew up-"

"I'm still here, you know," I hear the girl say rudely from the other side. Ari gives her a shut-the-fuck-up look. "Whatever."

We start to catch up, but out of the corner of my eye I can't help but keep looking back at the girl, whose eyes have begun to settle back into a honey colour. She picks at her cuticles with a bored hand, inspecting them. They're oddly sharp. She clears her throat as soon as she catches me.

"Pig," she says, and doesn't hesitate to slap me across the face, the sharp nails digging into the flesh and ripping it along with the force of her arm.

My eyes widen, and I can't seem to form words into a snarky comeback, to cover myself with a mask. The Contact Act was to avoid physical contact that would lead to homicide, suicide, and accidental deaths. Since then, nobody has fought, or has dared to, knowing that any mark left would result in a jail sentence. But to do it because I was staring? For some reason, I can't help but laugh.

"What's your name?" I ask her.

"Why do you want to know? So you can report me?"

"No, so I can ask you properly to never do that again."

She gives me a smirk. "Maximum Ride."

An eyebrow raise. "Fang. Do that again and I will fucking end you."

And she knows I mean it, which is why she laughs, too.

* * *

**Well? What do you think? :D Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you all!**


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